


Sherlock: Bottles On Tables

by IBegToDreamAndDiffer



Series: Sherlock: Impact [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fights, M/M, Suspected Eating Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-25
Updated: 2012-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-30 02:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IBegToDreamAndDiffer/pseuds/IBegToDreamAndDiffer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade begins to suspect that his boyfriend is an alcoholic. But how do you make a man like Mycroft Holmes admit to having a weakness?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock: Bottles On Tables

**Author's Note:**

> Original characters are owned by Arthur Conan Doyle. These versions are owned by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. I just get to play.

_Mycroft couldn’t leave without one last stab at his brother. He paused at the door and Greg looked at him. ‘It may just be my imagination,’ he said slowly, ‘but does anybody else smell roses?’ John blushed and Sherlock glared. Mycroft just smirked and said, ‘Have a lovely morning,’ as Greg grabbed him and dragged him forcefully from the flat._

_‘Mycroft, really,’ he groaned and went downstairs._

_‘I’m sorry,’ Mycroft said but he didn’t look it. He grabbed Greg and wrapped his arms around the shorter man’s waist, resting his chin on his shoulder. ‘Do you hate me?’_

_‘No.’_

_‘No?’_

_Greg smiled and said, ‘I’m going to have to punish you for that, Mr Holmes.’_

_‘Really?’ Mycroft smiled and Greg nodded. ‘And what kind of punishment would that be?’_

_Greg turned to face him and leaned in very close, his breath tickling Mycroft’s ear. ‘I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk for a week. And I’m going to tease you for hours and make sure you don’t come until I’m good and ready.’_

_Mycroft swallowed as Greg pulled back and felt blood colour his cheeks. ‘Is that so?’ he asked and Greg nodded. ‘We both have work.’_

_‘Not this morning we don’t.’_

_Mycroft said, ‘You realise that if I didn’t love you I’d have you exiled from Britain immediately.’_

_Greg just grinned and said, ‘Yeah, I know. But you do.’_

_Mycroft smiled and drew Greg in closely. ‘Yes,’ he said and kissed his boyfriend softly. ‘I really do.’_

 

\--

 

Usually Greg Lestrade didn’t like being woken up at midnight, especially if he’d spent the past three days working a very difficult case without Sherlock Holmes because he was, once again, in the hospital nursing fractured ribs as well as a bruised ego. But the sight of Mycroft Holmes smiling at him erased the string of curses that had come to Greg’s lips. Instead he pressed those lips against Mycroft’s and sighed when he tasted cigarettes.

‘Mycroft, we were doing so well.’

Mycroft sighed slightly. ‘I know, Gregory, but I really needed one.’

‘You say that every time.’

‘And every time it is the truth.’

Greg yawned and pulled himself from bed.

‘You don’t need to get up,’ Mycroft said.

But his lover did anyway, saying, ‘You’ve been gone three weeks, Mycroft. I plan on having you fuck me as soon as I get some food into you; you look far too thin.’

Mycroft blushed and allowed Greg to pull him into the kitchen.

‘Have you been eating?’

‘Of course.’

Greg tutted. ‘Mycroft, every time you go away for an extended period of time you lose weight.’

Mycroft smiled slightly as Greg pulled open his fridge. ‘You’re quite coherent considering you’ve slept three hours in two days.’

Smiling, Greg pulled a container of leftover lasagne from the fridge and popped the lid before sticking it in the microwave. ‘You’re rubbing off on me.’

‘I’d hope so,’ Mycroft leered and Greg chuckled.

‘Beer?’

‘Please.’

‘Sorry, no wine,’ Greg said. ‘Seems you’re not rubbing off on me enough.’

‘Well, I’ll just have to change that,’ Mycroft commented as he downed the entire beer. ‘I’ve been working hard,’ he said to Greg’s raised eyebrows. ‘Could I please have another?’

Greg had noticed over the past seven months that Mycroft didn’t particularly like beer. His eyes crinkled slightly, as did his nose, every time he tasted the amber liquid. But it didn’t seem to matter to Mycroft; alcohol was alcohol.

He had noticed that on their second date; Mycroft Holmes liked his alcohol very much. On the outside Mycroft was a very mysterious man. However on the inside he was even more of an enigma.

Greg prided himself on knowing more about Mycroft than anyone else, apart from maybe Sherlock. He knew the ins and outs of the man he loved. He knew that Mycroft liked AC/DC, The Beatles, The Sex Pistols, Green Day and Muse. He knew that Mycroft liked Russian literature, poetry, and action novels by British and Australian authors. He enjoyed watching Doctor Who with Greg, despite the fact he didn’t actually like the show. He liked watching the news, reading the paper, and dozing in his office chair. He also hated eating, never having more than a few bites of his meal, and liked alcohol far too much for Greg’s liking.

At first he thought nothing of it, really. Mycroft was, for lack of a better word, a rather _posh_ man. He enjoyed wine with dinner and liked a glass or two before bed. But Greg had noted that a glass or two usually turned into four or five. It was as though he was substituting food with alcohol and Greg didn’t like it. He was growing concerned that Mycroft was an alcoholic.

Mycroft would deny it, of course. He denied everything that concerned his health; the lack of eating, the not sleeping for four fucking days, the alcohol consumption.

Greg was worried. Really, really worried. They’d been dating almost seven months now and Greg was beginning to think he could bring it up without Mycroft shutting down. He knew Mycroft would gloss over the problem, change the subject, and probably bring up some of Greg’s less than desirable habits.

The DI knew he wasn’t perfect. He overworked himself, left clothes and files and books all over the place, didn’t wash the dishes or do his laundry until his flat was on the verge of becoming as bad as 221B Baker Street. He knew he fell on Ibuprofen too easily when he had a headache or had been injured during a case. And when he started smoking again he went through a pack a day. But Greg’s problems (and he knew smoking was a big problem) weren’t what mattered at the moment; Mycroft’s drinking was much more serious. ‘Gregory?’

The microwave was beeping annoyingly and Greg realised he’d zoned out. His boyfriend smiled as he finished his second beer in the space of five minutes. Greg glanced at him before taking the lasagne from the microwave, burning his fingers as he grabbed two forks. He knew Mycroft would not eat any of it if Greg didn’t join him.

Mycroft kissed the tips of his fingers and Greg tried to smile as he dug his fork into the meat and pastry, blowing on the lump as he brought it to Mycroft’s lips. He saw Mycroft’s eyes waver slightly before he opened his mouth and took the entire fork full, chewing slowly and swallowing.

Greg smiled and said, ‘Good?’

‘Very. May I have another beer?’

Greg hesitated. If Mycroft _was_ an alcohol, Greg shouldn’t be encouraging him.

‘Gregory, its three beers, relax,’ Mycroft said. Because of _course_ Mycroft had noticed Greg worrying about his alcohol consumption. ‘Share it with me if you wish.’

Greg gave in. He was tired, hungry, and wanted Mycroft. The man had been gone three weeks. Surly one more night couldn’t hurt? Greg could bring it up next time they were together, perhaps after sex when Mycroft was at his most compliant.

He twisted the cap free and took a sip, offering it to his partner. They ate in silence, just enjoying each other’s company. But the knot of worry tightened in his stomach as he dumped the empty container in the sink. He had eaten more than half of it and he’d only had three sips of beer but the bottle was empty.

Mycroft took his hand and led him into the bedroom where Greg would promptly be distracted from his worries. Maybe that was Mycroft’s plan.

 

-oOo-

 

Greg looked up in time to see Sherlock dragging John into an alleyway around the corner from the crime scene. But really, he had too much on his mind to worry about Sherlock and John jumping each other in public.

He still hadn’t brought up the alcohol topic with Mycroft. Since that night a week ago they’d had four more dates, a record for them seeing as how they both had demanding jobs. And during that time Mycroft had had five glasses of wine with each restaurant meal, half a bottle at his own flat, and seven beers at Greg’s.

It wasn’t that he’d become drunk, but that just worried Greg even more. A normal human being would be completely trashed off half a bottle of very expensive wine and Mycroft had been merely buzzed. He had a high tolerance for alcohol and it definitely wasn’t a good thing.

Greg knew he himself drank more beer than was healthy. But he didn’t drink every night. He barely got through one glass of wine at Mycroft’s and his fancy restaurants, he only had three or so beers after a particularly brutal case, and only let himself slip when he had pints with John Watson at the pub. He was no light weight but that was only because he was forty-seven years-old and had spent the past twenty-seven years drinking.

Greg bit his lip as he watched his team work. This whole alcohol thing was beginning to interfere with his work; he wasn’t concentrating on the case like he usually did.

He blinked back into reality as Sherlock circled the body. A few minutes later John Watson stumbled over, looking breathless, red and unsteady on his legs.

‘You look... sweaty,’ Greg tried. He wasn’t an idiot; he knew what the pair had been up to. John sighed and suddenly looked as tired and worried as Greg felt. ‘What?’

‘Sherlock’s been... I don’t know,’ the doctor sighed again.

Greg frowned. ‘That makes no sense.’

John ran a hand through his hair before beginning. ‘He’s just all over me all the time. There’s no romance anymore, it’s just sex, wherever he wants it. I’m getting sick of it.’

‘Ah, right,’ Greg said and paused, mulling that over. Clearly since fucking John, Sherlock had been giving into his animal needs far too much for the doctor’s liking. Greg had worried that he’d do the same with Mycroft; he was just so much more experienced sex wise that his younger boyfriend. But the whole alcohol thing had under-minded Greg’s sex drive nicely. He cared more about taking care of Mycroft than getting off. ‘Talking would help.’

‘I try but he just grabs me and makes me forget about saying anything.’

Greg snorted. ‘John, this isn’t good for your relationship,’ he said. ‘Getting pissed off at Sherlock and not telling him won’t help anything.’

‘I know,’ John said. ‘I just don’t want to fight.’

‘Couples fight, John,’ Greg reminded him. ‘The fact that you haven’t yet is weird.’

‘We’ve fought, mostly in the beginning when he was cutting and I wasn’t ready.’ Ah, yes, Greg remembered the cutting. He really hoped Sherlock didn’t go back to that. ‘But not lately, we’ve been good,’ John said and added, ‘until now.’

Greg just smiled softly. He was going to say that John needed to talk, to voice his concerns, but Sherlock was coming over. He rattled off his many deductions and Greg tried to keep up. And then he was done, grabbing John’s hand tightly and hauling him away.

Greg felt for the doctor, really he did, but he was too worried about Mycroft...

 

-oOo-

 

It was another week before they saw each other. Greg came home to find Mycroft waiting, wearing pyjama pants and one of Greg’s old t-shirts. It looked way too big on Mycroft which was just wrong; really, Mycroft wasn’t much different in body structure to Greg so the shirt should have fit reasonably well.

But Greg pushed that from his mind. One bloody addiction first. Alcohol now, not eating later.

Greg was exhausted but he had to broach the subject, especially when there was a bottle of wine on his coffee table and Mycroft looked to be on his fourth glass.

‘Mycroft, we need to talk.’

Mycroft frowned. He’d expected hugging, kissing, some touching. But Greg looked... worried, tired, hungry, in need of a cigarette.

‘About?’ Mycroft prompted. Greg’s eyes drifted to the wine bottle and Mycroft felt his stomach drop. Oh no. Greg had... he was going to bring up the alcohol. Nobody ever did, nobody but Sherlock. Mycroft swallowed and placed his glass on the coffee table.

‘Mycroft, you drink too much,’ Greg said, getting straight into it.

‘No I don’t,’ Mycroft said. ‘I drink when I want to and have complete control over it.’

‘Five glasses a night isn’t complete control,’ Greg said and shed his jacket and button-up shirt. _Great_ , Mycroft thought. Greg was getting comfortable; preparing himself for a long argument.

‘We don’t see each other every night, Gregory,’ Mycroft said.

‘Do you drink every night?’

Mycroft paused, raking his eyes over Greg. He could very well lie and possibly get away with it; he was an excellent liar. But Greg knew him well. And did Mycroft actually _want_ to lie? Did he want their relationship to be based on white lies? Mycroft looked over Greg again.

No, he didn’t. Greg meant far too much to Mycroft to allow even a simple lie to come between them. While Mycroft was more than happy to lie to each and every person he knew, he found that he didn’t want to be like that with Greg; Greg meant too much to him.

Mycroft loved him more than anything.

He swallowed again, badly wanting to reach for the wine but that would just add fuel to the fire. ‘Sometimes,’ he finally said.

‘How much?’

‘That hardly matters, Greg–’

‘How _much_ , Mycroft?’ Greg demanded and folded his arms.

Mycroft sighed. ‘Not too much.’

‘Don’t lie to me, Mycroft.’

‘I’m not.’

Greg glared at him and dropped onto the couch, shifting to face his boyfriend. ‘Mycroft, do you drink alone?’

‘Sometimes,’ Mycroft admitted. ‘If I am home alone and you are working but it’s just to relax, Gregory.’

‘Do you drink to calm down, to relax, to deal with stress?’

‘I just said that, Gregory,’ Mycroft tutted. Greg didn’t look amused. ‘Isn’t that why everybody drinks?’

‘How many glasses do you have, Mycroft?’ Mycroft paused. ‘If you don’t answer me, I swear to God I won’t talk to you for a week.’

Mycroft bit his lip. Greg was serious... ‘Five.’

‘How many beers?’

‘Seven.’

‘How often?’

‘Almost every day.’

‘Do you have a flask or bottle hidden in your office?’

Mycroft chewed on his lip.

‘Mycroft!’

‘Yes.’

‘How often do you refill it or change it?’

‘Weekly.’

‘Is this something Sherlock is worried about?’

Another pause before a feeble, ‘Yes.’

‘Fuck,’ Greg groaned and rubbed his eyes. It was really serious if Sherlock was actually worried. And he was worried about the not eating too. ‘Fuck, shit, Jesus,’ Greg said and stood. They’d been going so well too.

‘Gregory, it’s nothing to concern yourself with.’

‘Nothing to concern myself with?’ Greg said incredulously. ‘Mycroft, you’re a functioning alcoholic!’

‘I hardly think so.’

‘Do you need alcohol to function?’ Greg demanded. ‘Do you get the shakes and sweat if you don’t have alcohol for a few hours?’

Mycroft looked down. He couldn’t bear to see the look of hurt, of worry, of betrayal in his boyfriend’s eyes. ‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes,’ Greg said. He ran his hands through his hair and went into his kitchen where a pack of smokes was hidden for emergencies. He knew it was hardly helping the whole ‘addicted to a dangerous substance’ argument they were having but really, desperate times call for desperate measures. He turned after taking a long drag to see Mycroft emptying his glass of wine. ‘Mycroft,’ he sighed.

‘You don’t need to worry,’ Mycroft insisted as he licked the red liquid from his lips. ‘Why do you and Sherlock think I have a problem? I can handle it, it doesn’t affect my work or me.’

‘Mycroft, it’s killing you.’

‘Everything kills you, Gregory,’ Mycroft said. ‘Every minute of every day you are slowly approaching death. The food you eat, the pollution you breathe, the cigarette smoke you inhale... it’s all deadly.’

‘Guzzling down alcohol at every fucking opportunity isn’t helping, Mycroft!’

Mycroft frowned and Greg narrowed his eyes. Great, now he was going to get all angry. ‘I do _not_ have a problem, Gregory.’

‘You don’t... are you fucking serious?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mycroft, I can’t... all that shit you just said! You drink every day, five glasses of wine or seven beers, you drink alone, you have a bottle hidden in your office, you get the shakes and sweats if you don’t drink for a number of hours... are you seriously telling me that that isn’t a problem?’

‘Yes, it isn’t a problem,’ Mycroft insisted.

‘You fucking... Jesus, Mycroft, I can’t help you if you don’t admit that you’ve got a problem!’

‘I _don’t_ ,’ Mycroft said.

There was a knock on the door and Greg jumped. He glared at Mycroft, who folded his arms, as he went to get the door.

He couldn’t help a yawn breaking out over his face as he opened the door. He’d been working himself ragged and Mycroft... fucking Mycroft. Greg blinked and raised his eyebrows as he looked over John Watson. The man was a mess, crying and sniffing and pulling at his jumper.

‘John?’

‘Hey,’ the doctor croaked and Greg knew there was something very wrong.

‘What happened?’

‘Sherlock... broke up,’ John managed before he burst into tears. Greg sighed and pulled John in, leading him to the couch. Mycroft was still frowning at Greg as he pulled himself up to let John sit down. Greg glared at him before sitting beside John and throwing a reassuring arm around him.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

John could barely get anything out but managed, ‘He... tried... sex... again.’

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and looked at Greg for an explanation. Greg sighed and said, ‘Sherlock’s been... very physical lately.’ John had fallen against his shoulder and was crying. ‘He’s been jumping John whenever he can.’

‘Doesn’t care...’ John said, his face pressed into Greg’s shirt. ‘Said hugging me is boring. Basically told me I was... just a fuck buddy.’

Mycroft sighed and rubbed his eyes. First Gregory and now this... it was as though the world was purposely trying to annoy him tonight. All he wanted was a glass of wine and his boyfriend.

‘I’ll go talk to him,’ he said and stood. There’d be no more alcohol tonight, at least not if Greg was around. And Mycroft knew their fight wasn’t over; he could see it in Greg’s eyes.

‘Don’t bother...’ John cried and balled his jumper into his fists. ‘Don’t wanna... fucking... see him.’

‘That’s not true, John,’ Mycroft said soothingly. ‘Let me talk to him.’ He glanced at Greg before leaning forward to kiss him softly. ‘Sorry, love.’

Greg glared at him. ‘S’alright. Go talk to your stupid brother.’

It was clear that Sherlock wasn’t the only Holmes who Greg thought was stupid. Mycroft smiled and went to get changed, hoping the whole ‘alcohol’ thing would blow over. He really didn’t have a problem.

Seriously.

 

-oOo-

 

Mycroft stepped from his car and proceeded up to 221B. He was tired, had been awake for three days, and had been looking forward to a relaxing night at his boyfriend’s, whom he hadn’t seen in nearly a week.

But Sherlock had ruined everything by ignoring his and John’s emotions. And then there was the alcohol that Greg seemed to think Mycroft had a problem with. He sighed as he tapped at the door. Sometimes Sherlock, and Greg, really irritated him.

There was no answer, of course, so Mycroft pushed the door open and stepped in. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen and he headed straight for the bathroom.

He found Sherlock sitting against the counter, a large knife in his hand. He was shirtless and his pale and horribly scarred forearms were showing. But there were no new cuts, which was something.

 ‘Sherlock...’ Mycroft said slowly and propped his umbrella against the wall. ‘Put the knife down.’

‘No,’ Sherlock said roughly and Mycroft realised he was crying. ‘I ruined it.’

‘No you didn’t,’ Mycroft said calmly, trying to take control of the situation.

‘I did,’ Sherlock said and tears fell down his red puffy face. Mycroft swallowed as Sherlock said, ‘I... John... I ruined it, Mycroft. He’s gone.’

‘He’s at Gregory’s,’ Mycroft said and stepped closer. The hand holding the knife shook and Mycroft kept his eyes on it. ‘Sherlock, you can fix this.’

‘Can’t,’ Sherlock said and the knife slid closer to his arm, ‘I ruined it, he’s never coming back.’

‘He will, Sherlock,’ Mycroft said, edging closer to his fragile brother. ‘Couples fight all the time.’

‘I don’t... I don’t understand,’ Sherlock managed and the tip of the knife slid to rest against his pale skin.

‘A relationship is about emotions, Sherlock, as well as sexual needs,’ Mycroft explained softly. He tried to ignore the fear bubbling in his stomach. If Sherlock cut himself again... Mycroft feared there would be no healing. ‘You were ignoring the emotional part, like usual.’

‘I didn’t mean to,’ Sherlock said and the tip dug into his skin. A spot of blood appeared on his white skin and rolled across his arm. Mycroft stared at it. ‘I love John so much that I... I couldn’t... I’ve ruined it.’

The tip dug in deeper and Sherlock shivered in response. Mycroft stepped forward to crouch beside Sherlock, who didn’t look at him.

‘Sherlock, you can fix this. John is hurt at the moment but he still loves you.’

‘Doesn’t,’ Sherlock grunted. Mycroft hesitated before placing a hand on Sherlock’s freshly bleeding left arm. His brother jumped but didn’t pull away from the touch, giving Mycroft hope.

‘He loves you, Sherlock, for all your faults. If he didn’t he wouldn’t be with you.’ It was a fact, how could Sherlock not see it? John loved everything about him, accepted everything including the drug history and craziness and even the cutting. Just like Greg accepted Mycroft for his... for his faults.

‘He’s not with me,’ Sherlock said but pulled the knife back a little more. ‘Not anymore.’

‘Sherlock, he is,’ Mycroft said and his grip tightened. ‘Come on, give me the knife.’

Sherlock shook his head.

‘Please, Sherlock, don’t do this. John wouldn’t want you to.’

Sherlock gulped down a breath and his hand shook slightly.

‘Sherlock,’ Mycroft tried again. ‘Let’s talk, in the living room, away from the bathroom and the knife. Please, brother, don’t do this. Let me prove to you that John still loves you.’

There was silence, then, and the two brothers stared at each other. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to Mycroft, Sherlock nodded.

The knife went slack in his grip and Mycroft reached over and plucked it from his nimble fingers. He sighed in relief.

Suddenly Sherlock was falling into Mycroft, gripping his jacket. Mycroft stared at him as he placed the knife on the sink. Sherlock hadn’t needed Mycroft like this since they were children. He didn’t trust Mycroft that much, not anymore. But tonight it seemed he was willing to break down and let his older brother hold him.

 

-oOo-

 

After a great deal of crying, Greg managed to get John up. He handed the doctor a beer and sipped from his own, almost glaring at the bottle. Mycroft Fucking Holmes...

‘I fucking hate him,’ John said suddenly, his voice croaky from crying.

‘No you don’t,’ Greg said.

‘I want to.’

‘I know you do.’ And Greg wanted to hate Mycroft too; for the drinking, the lying, the not eating, the insisting he didn’t have a problem. But he didn’t hate him anymore than John hated Sherlock. Because even while he was pissed off beyond belief that Mycroft was an alcoholic and refusing to admit it, he still loved the man. And he would do everything in his power to help him.

John sighed again. ‘I can’t believe... I don’t want to break up with him.’ Greg nodded along as he spoke, half listening, half focused on Mycroft. ‘I really love him but... the things he said...’

‘What did he say, exactly?’ Greg asked, trying to give John his full attention.

John leaned further along the counter and twirled the bottle in his hands. ‘He’s just been all over me, you know? And it’s not like I don’t love sex with him but there’s no romance anymore. He just jumps me and fucks me ’til I come. And then he disappears or goes back to sitting on the couch for five hours. There’s no romance anymore, no dates or anything. We used to just lie in bed together and enjoy each other’s company. I told him that and he said, ‘Cuddling’s boring’, like he was just using me when he got bored. I snapped and he basically broke up with me.’

‘I’m sure he didn’t.’

‘He said I was leaving like he knew I would. He’s probably gloating about it now to his brother; saying how he turned the straight little doctor and fucked him over.’

‘John, you know that’s not true,’ Greg sighed and sipped his beer. ‘Sherlock’s not good with feelings but he _does_ have them. And he loves you; I can tell, Mycroft can tell, and Sherlock can bloody tell.’

‘I think it’s over.’

‘It’s not,’ Greg said sternly, and John looked at him. ‘You’ll go home and Sherlock will apologise because Mycroft will show him what he’s done wrong. Sherlock will get there in the end and he’ll apologise, I’m sure of it.’

They lapsed into silence and John downed his beer. Greg handed him another one.

‘Greg?’ John asked.

‘Mm?’ the DI said and turned to look at John, still lost in his thoughts about Mycroft.

‘I love him,’ John said.

Greg nodded and sipped his beer. ‘I know you do, John. I know.’

‘What do I do?’ John moaned.

‘Make him say sorry,’ Greg said.

‘That’s not going to help.’

‘Talking will help, John, believe me. Sometimes Sherlock doesn’t realise what he’s saying; his brain moves too fast. Give him a chance to apologise. Don’t let one small fight ruin it.’ Greg sighed at the last part, wondering if Mycroft would now break up with him. If he’d been an alcoholic for years he wasn’t about to give up the habit quietly. What if he chose alcohol over him?

Greg found his chest constricting tightly. He didn’t want to break up with Mycroft. But what... what if Mycroft chose alcohol over Greg? What if he was so reliant on wine that he decided he needed it more than Gregory Lestrade? Greg nearly moaned loudly at the thought of losing Mycroft. But he couldn’t stay with the politician if he continued poisoning himself with five glasses a day.

Would Greg make him choose? He thought about that as John sighed, leaning against the table. The doctor was too preoccupied with his thoughts to realise that Greg was struggling with his own.

What if it came down to a choice? What if Greg had to force Mycroft to choose? Could he do it? Could Greg walk away from Mycroft and leave the man to die of alcohol poisoning or liver disease?

Greg shook his head, sipping his own beer. As much as it was killing him he knew what had to happen; it was obvious.

Greg would have to demand Mycroft get clean. He would promise to stay by Mycroft and help the man through it. Because Greg loved Mycroft far too much to let him go through withdrawal on his own.

But if Mycroft didn’t, if he refused to get clean... Greg would have no choice but to walk away.

 

-oOo-

 

‘He can just be so idiotic!’ Sherlock fumed. The tears were gone and he sat on the couch, arms folded and lips pouting.

‘I am aware of that,’ Mycroft answered from John’s armchair, though he knew none of this was John’s fault. While John probably could have explained himself better, it was Sherlock at fault and he knew it.

‘I hate him sometimes.’

Mycroft sighed. ‘That is not true, Sherlock, and you know it. Sometimes you may dislike John or what he does or says, but you most definitely do not hate him.’ He thought about Greg, about the things he had said. He was upset, yes, that Greg thought he had a problem. But that didn’t mean he hated the man. He was just... annoyed.

Sherlock went quiet and Mycroft let him, just sitting and twirling his umbrella.

‘Mycroft?’

‘Yes, brother?’

‘I love John.’

‘I am aware of that, Sherlock,’ Mycroft said. ‘I am well aware of that.’

‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘Apologise.’

Sherlock looked at him. ‘It’s not that simple.’

‘I know,’ Mycroft said and smiled. ‘But it’s a start.’

Sherlock nodded slowly.

‘Sherlock, you almost ruined this,’ Mycroft said and couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ruined things with Gregory. What if the man chose to continue thinking Mycroft had a problem? What if he broke up with Mycroft over it? His hand tightened on his umbrella but he tried not to let the worry show. He didn’t need Sherlock to concern himself.

‘I fear I have.’

‘No you haven’t,’ Mycroft sighed.

Sherlock paused before asking, ‘What have I done wrong?’

Mycroft looked at him carefully. It was rare for Sherlock to ask him for help but this was very serious; Sherlock’s relationship with John was on the line and he wanted to fix it. He’d accept help even from Mycroft.

‘Sherlock, you focused on your animal instincts and ignored the emotional aspects. John was beginning to feel used. I take it you two don’t just cuddle and enjoy each other’s company anymore?’

Sherlock shook his head. ‘Not in a while.’

‘And no more dates?’

‘We’re in a relationship, why do we have to go on dates?’

‘It’s nice to take some time off and just focus on your relationship, Sherlock,’ Mycroft tried to explain. He’d always understood human emotions better than his brother. ‘John wants dates and time together and just cuddling and watching TV. He wanted to just enjoy your company and know he’s loved. He thinks you just want sex now.’

‘I... I don’t,’ Sherlock said and swallowed. ‘I want him around all the time.’

‘Then stop jumping him and just hold him, Sherlock. The man isn’t a piece of meat you can take whenever you fancy. He’s a real man with real emotions. Show him that you care. Not all the time, he doesn’t need declarations of love every five seconds. But once in a while he’d appreciate a date, some flowers, maybe just a soft kiss and ‘I love you’. All he asks is that you respect him.’

Sherlock nodded and leaned back. ‘Have I ruined it, Mycroft?’

‘Not completely, brother,’ Mycroft replied. ‘But if you apologise and work for his affection, everything will work out.’

‘I love him.’

‘Then tell him.’

 

-oOo-

 

Mycroft spent the rest of the night in the arm chair, eyes on Sherlock. His younger brother had fallen asleep and was curled in on himself. Though Mycroft was exhausted he stayed where he was. There was no way he was going to leave Sherlock alone, not so soon after the knife incident.

There was another reason Mycroft stayed where he was. If he left Gregory would expect him to return, no doubt so they could continue their argument. Mycroft didn’t want to fight with Gregory, he didn’t like it, but the DI was under the silly assumption that Mycroft was an alcoholic. Mycroft didn’t want to go over that again... he couldn’t.

At nine his BlackBerry rang and Mycroft answered, ‘Holmes.’

‘ _Sir, meeting in half-an-hour, the car will collect you from Baker Street._ ’

Mycroft sighed and rubbed his eyes. ‘Yes, thank you,’ he said and hung up. He slipped his phone into his pocket and stood. Sherlock shifted and turned, eyes puffy from sleep. ‘I have to go, Sherlock.’

‘John?’ Sherlock asked a little hopefully.

‘Still at Gregory’s,’ Mycroft answered. Well, he assumed that was where John was.

‘Oh,’ Sherlock said and rubbed his eyes.

‘Sherlock,’ Mycroft said, ‘promise me you won’t cut yourself again.’

‘I won’t.’

‘And apologise to John when he returns,’ Mycroft said and hesitated at the door. ‘Let him calm down, Sherlock. Don’t try for anything physical yet.’

‘I won’t.’ Mycroft stepped through the door but stopped and turned when Sherlock said, ‘Mycroft?’

‘Yes, brother?’

Sherlock bit his bottom lip and said, ‘Thank you.’

Mycroft nodded. ‘Any time, Sherlock.’

 

-oOo-

 

Greg was called in for a murder around ten and left a sleeping John Watson on the couch. He left a note and dressed quickly before exiting his flat. At the crime scene he did little but stare at the body and try to take notes. The argument with Mycroft was still fresh in his mind and he sighed. It hadn’t gone as planned. Mycroft had all but admitted to alcoholic behaviour but refused to admit he was actually an alcoholic. Greg sighed in frustration. What would he have to do to prove that the man had a problem?

It turned out that Greg wouldn’t have to do anything. Because two nights later they had a heated argument that ended badly.

 

-oOo-

 

‘Mycroft, I just want to talk.’

‘ _If it’s about the insane notion that I have a drinking problem then I don’t want to hear it._ ’

Greg was sitting in his flat, staring at crime scene photos that no longer made sense. ‘Are you serious?’

‘ _Yes._ ’

‘Mycroft, for fuck’s sake... you drink alone.’

‘ _So_?’

‘You sweat if you don’t drink,’ Greg said and Mycroft tutted. ‘Shakes, five glasses of wine, _seven_ beers. Are you seriously going to say that’s not alcoholism?’

‘ _I have a high tolerance for alcohol,_ ’ Mycroft said.

‘Because you’re an alcoholic!’ Greg shouted.

‘ _Gregory, there is nothing to worry about. You are starting to get on my nerves_.’

Greg glared at his TV, almost shaking with rage. ‘I... _I’m_ getting on _your_ nerves? Fucking hell, I’m just trying to help!’

‘ _I don’t need help_.’

‘YES YOU DO!’ Greg shouted and was glad to hear Mycroft grunt. ‘Fucking Jesus... _fuck_! Why do all you Holmeses have to be so fucking stubborn? Do you remember Sherlock denying, vehemently, that he didn’t have a drug problem? Even when he was fucking OD-ing on his living room floor? Remember that?’

There was a pause before a soft, ‘ _Yes_.’

‘Yeah, and he nearly fucking died _five_ times before he admitted he had a problem. Are you going to be dying from liver failure before you admit it?’

‘ _I don’t have a problem_ ,’ Mycroft tried again.

Greg wanted to smash something. He wanted to smash his TV, his fridge, Mycroft’s fucking face. ‘I... I don’t even know what to say to you.’

‘ _An apology would be acceptable_.’

‘I have nothing to apologise for!’

‘ _Your assumption that I am controlled by alcohol is a low blow, Gregory._ ’

‘You...’ Greg thought he might just smash himself in the face. ‘You know what, I can’t handle this. Fucking... Mycroft, I’m trying to help. You’re a goddamn alcoholic.’

‘ _I am_ not.’

‘I... fuck you!’ Greg snapped and ended the call. He threw his phone at the couch and it bounced into back into his ribs, making him wince and get even angrier. ‘FUCK!’ he screamed and fell back scowling, wanting very, very badly to smash something.

 

-oOo-

 

Mycroft stared at his phone. Gregory had... he’d hung up on him. Usually they took each other’s calls whenever possible because of their work. Gregory had just... hung up.

Scowling, Mycroft dropped his BlackBerry and went to the kitchen. He pulled out a bottle of wine and filled a large glass, gulping down the entire thing. He had another three before he started to feel woozy and angry. He did _not_ have a problem!

Mycroft stared at the glass, thinking about all the times Sherlock had brought it up. He’d first mentioned Mycroft’s fondness for alcohol five years ago. Sherlock had been detoxing and had been looking for anything to take his mind off the pain. He’d commented on Mycroft’s wine collection as he threw up in the kitchen.

“ _I like wine,_ ” Mycroft had said.

“ _Alcoholic,_ ” was Sherlock’s reply.

The past five years, Sherlock’s stabs had been getting less sharp and more concerned. When they were alone, Sherlock would look him over and sigh, like he could smell the alcohol on Mycroft.

It was the worst at family get-togethers, mostly Christmas. Christmas was the one holiday Mycroft and Sherlock could stand to be with each other, and it was only for Mummy’s sake. Mycroft would be sipping whatever alcoholic beverage he had in his hands and Sherlock would comment:

“ _Are you planning on drinking that or swimming in it?_ ”

“ _Alcohol is fattening, Mycroft, perhaps you should stop. Wouldn’t want to gain any_ more _weight, would you?_ ”

“ _Is one bottle not enough, brother?_ ”

“ _Yes, you wouldn’t want to be sober when receiving Mummy’s gift._ ”

“ _Mycroft, maybe you’ve had enough._ ”

“ _Put the glass down, Mycroft._ ”

“ _Brother, please._ ”

“ _Mycroft, get up, let me help you._ ”

“ _You can’t sleep here._ ”

“ _Please stop this, Mycroft, you’re starting to scare me._ ”

“ _Jesus Christ._ ”

“ _Mycroft?_ ”

“ _MYCROFT!_ ”

Mycroft blinked from his own thoughts and stared at the bottle of wine. He... he _did_ drink a fair bit but it was just to relax, wasn’t it? And wine went well with dinner... and Greg only ever had beer... and Sherlock was just a stubborn, childish brat... and drinking at work wasn’t _that_ bad.

Panic suddenly flooded his system and Mycroft picked the bottle up, throwing it across the kitchen. It shattered against the table, glass and liquid flying everywhere as Mycroft stumbled back.

No, no, not possible. Mycroft Holmes did not give himself over to anything. Sex, maybe. Gregory Lestrade, most definitely. But no, he was Mycroft Holmes. He wasn’t controlled by a bottle or a glass or any liquid. He wasn’t controlled by anything. He was the one _in_ control. No, he couldn’t possibly be an alcoholic. No, no, no, no, NO!

Mycroft backed up against the wall, panting heavily.

No, no, absolutely not. No, no, no. Mycroft tore at his hair as he tried to breathe. No, this couldn’t be happening. He... NO!

Mycroft Holmes, secretly the British Government, never _ever_ lost control. He was in control of his weight, his work, his home, everything. Everything except his relationship with Gregory Lestrade.

But... he swallowed and shook slowly, staring at the broken shards of glass. The drinking... it... it controlled him.

That sudden realisation was fast tearing Mycroft Holmes apart.

And he didn’t have a single clue how to stop it.

 

-oOo-

 

Greg was woken by his phone ringing and wondered if it was Mycroft. His boyfriend hadn’t called back after Greg had hung up.

But the caller ID said _Sally Donovan,_ not _Mycroft Holmes_ or _Unknown_ or even _Hogwarts,_ which Greg assumed was Mycroft’s assistant’s weird sense of humour coming out. Greg answered and said, ‘Murder?’

Sally cleared her throat nervously and said, ‘ _Erm..._ ’

She sounded worried and Greg pulled himself up into a sitting position. ‘Sally, what is it?’ He briefly wondered if Sherlock had broken into someone’s flat, again, or gotten high again, or had John Watson kill someone... again. ‘Sally?’

‘ _It’s... your boyfriend,_ ’ she said.

‘What about him?’ There was no answer. ‘Donovan?’ he demanded.

She sighed. ‘ _He was arrested for a DUI._ ’

‘What?’

‘ _He was pulled over for swerving and one look at him you can tell he’s trashed. He was barely making sense as they cuffed him and brought him in. I only heard after they ran his prints and a whole lot of “Top Level Security” and “Dangerous” started flashing on our screens. I got a call a few minutes ago from a woman saying to contact you to come get him. We can’t press chargers, he’s... well, he’s certainly got friends in high places._ ’

Greg listened to everything in a kind of haze. DUI... trashed... Top Level Security... get him... Greg cursed and slapped his forehead. Mycroft Fucking Holmes. What an absolute idiot! Drinking and driving, what the fuck was he thinking? Greg was going to bloody well kill him, regardless of how drunk he was.

‘ _Lestrade?_ ’

‘Yeah, I’m on way,’ Greg said and hauled himself from bed. ‘I’ll be right there.’

 

-oOo-

 

Mycroft looked up as the door to his holding cell creaked open. His face dropped as Greg walked in, glaring at him.

‘You’re free to go, Mr Holmes,’ Sally said, scowling. Mycroft knew she probably wanted to keep him overnight, possibly lock him up just for being a Holmes, maybe run experiments or have him committed.

‘Thanks, Sally,’ Greg said.

‘Yeah,’ Sally grunted and left them.

Greg leaned against the wall and folded his arms, staring down at Mycroft. Mycroft couldn’t meet his eyes, instead more than happy to memorise everything about the floor.

‘Driving while drunk?’ Greg said. ‘Seriously?’ Mycroft didn’t answer and he sighed. ‘Are you still drunk?’

‘No,’ he said softly.

Greg shifted from foot to foot. ‘Mycroft, I... I can’t fucking believe it. Why?’

‘I needed to clear my head,’ Mycroft said.

‘You have a driver.’

‘I couldn’t find my phone.’

Greg sighed. ‘Fucking hell.’

‘Are you mad?’

‘Yes,’ Greg said and Mycroft finally looked up at him. Yes, Gregory was definitely mad. But he was also worried and tired and nervous and... he still loved Mycroft.

Even after everything Mycroft had said, after the denial and the phone call and now getting arrested... Greg still loved him.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Are you?’ Greg demanded. ‘Are you really? Or should we just end things here?’

‘What?’ Mycroft gasped.

‘Mycroft, you refuse to admit that you have a problem,’ Greg said, ‘and admitting to it is the first step to recovery. And if you don’t...’ he trailed off and sighed.

God he loved the stupid man so much it hurt. He could barely keep himself together at the moment; Mycroft looked so fragile, so broken, and all Greg could do is berate him for drinking.

But there wasn’t anything else he could do. Mycroft was killing himself slowly and it was killing Greg watching him.

‘Mycroft, I love you, I love you more than anyone I’ve ever loved before. And I can’t sit by and watch you kill yourself. Please, Mycroft. If you really love me you’ll admit right now that you’re an alcoholic.’

He looked at Mycroft pointedly, arms folded, eyebrows together. Mycroft swallowed and looked down at his hands... they were shaking.

He... he didn’t want to admit it. Admitting to something like that was acknowledging that something had control over him, that he had allowed alcohol to take over his life. And he just couldn’t do that.

‘Mycroft,’ Greg said slowly and he looked up at him. ‘Admit that you are an alcoholic, right now, or I will never believe you again when you say you love me. Control is important to you, I get that. But is it more important than me? Than us?’

Mycroft stared at his face, searching, and deduced that Greg was telling the truth. He would never, ever again believe that Mycroft loved him. And then... they’d drift apart, break up, stop seeing each other.

‘Is alcohol more important than our future, Mycroft?’ Greg asked. ‘Imagine what we could have; we could live together, get married, have kids, grow really old together. But none of that will happen if you don’t admit that you have a problem.’

Even as he said the words images flashed through Greg’s mind; waking up every morning beside Mycroft, walking down the aisle together and exchanging rings, raising kids and going to football and school plays... he wasn’t surprised that he wanted all of that with Mycroft. The man meant everything to him.

Mycroft looked up at Greg, eyes wide as he finished. Gregory wanted that with him? He wanted kids and marriage and... he wanted Mycroft? Nobody had ever wanted Mycroft, not for anything that wasn’t a top secret government plan.

But Gregory... he wanted Mycroft; he wanted a future.

Mycroft wanted it too. He wanted it so badly his heart hurt. He wanted to admit that he had a problem and go home with Greg. He didn’t want to lie anymore; he didn’t want to lie about the drinking, the food, the days he spent wishing he was someone else. Mycroft wanted Greg, the future Greg had talked about, everything. They couldn’t break up. It was... Mycroft couldn’t handle that.

Mycroft needed Greg more than he needed to control his own life, to deny that drinking had such a hold on him.

‘I...’ he said slowly and swallowed.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m...’

‘I can wait all night, Mycroft.’

Finally Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut and said, ‘I have a problem.’

‘And what would that problem be?’

He took deep breaths. ‘I’m a... an alcoholic.’

Greg paused and looked Mycroft over. The man was shaking, barely holding on. ‘Are you going to let me help you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

Mycroft opened his eyes and looked pleadingly at Greg. ‘You’re not going to leave me?’

‘No,’ Greg said and stepped closer. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft and hugged him tightly. ‘I know that was difficult and that giving it up will be hard. But I will be with you every step of the way, Mycroft Holmes. I love you, okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘Thank you for admitting it,’ Greg said kissing him softly.

‘I don’t know if I... if I can stop.’

‘I’ll help,’ Greg said and pulled back to look at Mycroft. ‘I know that was difficult for you but I _will_ help, Mycroft. Being an alcoholic is nothing to be ashamed off. Letting something like that control you isn’t a weakness. It’s human. And getting over it will just make you stronger, alright?’

‘Alright.’ Mycroft gripped Greg closer, glad to have his boyfriend there. He was very close to falling apart. ‘Gregory?’

‘Mm?’

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

It would be difficult, Mycroft might relapse. But Greg didn’t care. He loved Mycroft Holmes. And he’d do anything for him.


End file.
